


What If

by define_serenity



Series: Seblaine Week 2019 [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, High School, M/M, Pre-Relationship, William McKinley High School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-09 21:34:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20124196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/define_serenity/pseuds/define_serenity
Summary: [SEMI-RELATED DRABBLES] What if Dalton Academy didn’t exist (the horror!), and after Sadie Hawkins Blaine transfers to another public high school, William McKinley High. He quickly strikes up a friendship with Kurt, becomes a valued member of New Directions, and come his junior year, Sebastian Smythe is a new transfer student. Star athlete, easy going, frequenter of the only gay bar in Lima, Scandals, Sebastian likes what he sees when he looks at Blaine.





	What If

**Author's Note:**

> Drabbles plucked from an ancient wip for [seblaineaffairs](www.seblaineaffairs.tumblr.com)' **Seblaine Week 2019**, day 3: season/plot rewrite. Many many years ago I started on a s3 rewrite, aka the McKinley AU, but it never went anywhere. These are a few drabbles taken from that WIP. THESE ARE CHRONOLOGICAL BUT NOT SUPER COHERENT.
> 
> One of my older stories **[A Dark World Aches](https://archiveofourown.org/works/827140/chapters/1585524)** was set in this same 'verse and can be read as a 'sequel' to these drabbles.

“Hey, Mr Hummel,” Blaine says, hands in his pockets as he slips through the half-open door at the Hudson-Hummel house.

“Kid, seriously.”

He grins. “Hey, Mr Kurt’s dad,” he jokes, rather than correcting himself and calling him ‘Burt.’ He’s been hanging out with Kurt for over a year and he still gets intimidated by Burt Hummel, his familiar and fatherly proximity somehow alien to him.

“How’s that right hook coming, huh?” Burt asks, making a feint at a gut shot.

He dives down, playing along and puts his fists up defensively. Burt’s the one who initially convinced him to take up boxing. He needed an expression for the unresolved injustice his high school bullies had left him with. He’d been dubious at first, he didn’t want to think of himself as an angry person, especially not after being assaulted, but Burt was right, he needed an outlet stronger than singing. He couldn’t spend every day so tightly wound, scared that it might happen again at the wrong word, the wrong move, the wrong lingering glance.

Kurt’s the one who eventually got him to talk to Coach Beiste to discuss his options.

He stumbles into the living room, where Burt and Carole had seemingly settled down for movie night. “Hey, Carole.”

“Hey, Blaine.” Carole smiles. “He’s upstairs.”

“Keep the door unlocked,” Burt says.

And he’s known Burt long enough to know it’s meant in good humor, but heat rises up the back of his neck, his cheeks burning. He’s never seen Kurt as a romantic interest, even though there were probably moments in both their lives where they at least considered each other as one simply because they were the only other gay person in the other’s life. But it’s never gone beyond friendship between them.

“Well, your dad still manages to make me feel uncomfortable every time I come around,” Blaine says as he makes his way into Kurt’s room, making sure neither Burt or Carole can hear him. He closes Kurt’s bedroom door behind him. Kurt is sitting cross-legged on his bed, back turned towards him.

“Sorry,” Kurt says absentmindedly, not his usual self.

“What’s wrong?” Blaine asks. He assumed Kurt asked him to stop by to hang out and talk about the NYADA mixer for potential applicants he and Rachel attended. In hindsight Kurt’s text had probably sounded a little too urgent. “Something happen at the mixer?”

“_Nothing _ happened at the mixer.” Kurt throws his hands up; he sounds more vulnerable than he’s heard him in a long time. Kurt turns his head to look at him. He can tell he’s been crying. “We were completely humiliated by the Gerber baby.”

Blaine frowns.

“Harmony— something.” Kurt rolls his eyes, his lip setting in a vicious sneer. “Even her name sounds musical.”

“Harmony Brooks? Captain of the Unitards?” he asks, having few problems picturing exactly what went down tonight. Harmony was, for lack of a better term, a Queen Bee; fostered in private education her entire life, daughter of a State’s Attorney, she’s always had –and gotten– whatever her heart desired. Like Rachel she goes to great lengths to get what she wants. It’s strange that she managed to catch Rachel and Kurt by surprise: he always thought Rachel kept better track of their competition. Then again, he seemed to be the only one at McKinley who read the show choir blogs. 

“Ugh,” Kurt puffs out and falls backwards on the bed.

Blaine sits down next to him, probably a little more amused than he should be, looking at Kurt over his shoulder. Kurt’s always had a proclivity towards airing exactly what was on his mind, but that usually involved someone else’s problems. Strange how he’s letting this get to him so much. 

“You’re not really going to let her bring you down, are you?” 

Kurt grunts in response. 

“That doesn’t sound like the Kurt Hummel I know.”

“If I’m serious about NYADA I’ll have to work even harder.”

“And?”

Kurt chuckles softly. He takes a deep breath and sits up, comfortable enough in Blaine’s presence to let their legs touch. “I’m going to run for Senior Class President.”

His eyes widen in surprise, but he manages a smile. He knows by telling him in private first Kurt’s looking for a little validation to make sure it’s really as good an idea as his head’s telling him. And while Kurt’s never really been the most politically active person and he’s definitely doing this with ulterior motives in mind, he can see Kurt as Class President. 

“That’s an amazing idea.”

Kurt’s mouth pulls at the corner, but it’s his eyes that really smile. “Does that mean I have your vote?”

He bumps shoulders with Kurt. “Do you even have to ask?”

One thing he’s always admired about Kurt is that he’s one hundred percent sure of who he is. He thought the same thing about himself once, it’s the reason he decided to come out in the first place, a decision to be brave and become complete in a world that would judge him for it. But at least he would never have to look back on his life in regret. He saw kids struggle with that every day, he even saw it in Karofsky.

He knows that a huge part of Kurt’s insistence that he wear his bowties again is really an attempt to get him to that place again, that brave place deep inside where the rest of the world doesn’t matter, where he’s the one who decides if what they say about him is true because he’s the only one that can allocate meaning to their words.

But somehow that was an easier decision to make before the world beat him down, before two broken ribs, bruises all over and tears in his father’s eyes. Before Cooper coming over with _ chicken soup _ of all things, before a vain attempt at laying down assault-and-battery charges and another school where he had to go through that all over again. At least McKinley hadn’t managed to push him back down.

That was because of Kurt.

So that’s why he does it. He watches some _ Gilmore Girls _ with Kurt first, but once he’s back home he rushes upstairs to his bedroom, pulls the box of bowties from under his bed, digs out all his old clothes, and starts puzzling an outfit together to wear the next day. Maybe it’s time he steps up to the plate too, show solidarity for Kurt’s cause and prove to other kids in the school that it’s okay, that they don’t have to be afraid, that there are others like them and they can express themselves the way they want, dress the way they want, run for Senior Class President, even.

It’s not easy; he’s pulled to a black shirt and regular blue jeans, the same colors he’d resigned himself to for the past year, but that’s not what he wants. He wants to bring out the old him, the brave him, a Blaine Anderson that’s fearless in the face of bullies and judgment. But most of all he wants to feel like the Blaine Anderson he is inside: driven and ambitious, aligned with his sense of pride inside and out.

After two hours of running back and forth between his bed and his closet, adding and subtracting and dismissing color schemes he finally decides on a black polo shirt, adorned with a red, white and blue striped bowtie, red skinny jeans with a white belt, and yellow sunglasses should he need them. He looks down at the outfit spread out on his bed and smiles to himself – yes, he thinks, this is him.

This is right.

That night, as he lies in bed and fails to catch any sleep, he remembers that there’s one final purple piano down in the courtyard. Maybe his breakout as _ Blaine Anderson _ should be him entirely, bowties and bright colored jeans and a song in his heart. If he skips homeroom in the morning he could probably put a number together with the band and some of the cheerleaders.

“Honey, are you wearing that to school?” is the first thing out of his mother’s mouth when he settles down at the breakfast table the next day.

“Y—” he stutters, interrupted by his mother buzzing back and forth between him and the kitchen counter, scattering pots and cups and utensils across the table. “Yeah.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, coming to an abrupt halt behind his back. He can hear the concern in her voice. Maybe he shouldn’t be happy to hear it, it’s almost always there now after all, but it’s her obvious inability to hide it that makes it strangely welcome.

“Yes, mom,” he answers, keeping his voice as steady as he can. “I’m sure.”

Next thing his mother’s hands are on his shoulders and he tenses at the sudden contact. He’s not used to her doing this anymore. She pulls at the ends of his bowtie to straighten it and he gets the feeling she’s about to kiss his hair, when his father makes his way into the kitchen.

“Morning,” he greets tersely, the mood shifting on a dime.

“Hey, dad.”

His dad halts behind him as well; he hears him kiss his mother’s cheek, and then his father’s hand brushes past his chin. He thinks it must be an accident, because his father only pulls at one end of his bowtie, pulling it askew.

“What’s this?” 

“It’s a bowtie, dad,” he answers, smoothing his fingers over the fabric again. “I’ve worn them before.”

“Because your mother couldn’t stop buying them for you.” His father’s concern is never quite as audible as his mother’s—right now he sounds much closer to disappointed. “I thought you were past this.”

What his father really means is _ I thought we agreed these clothes paint you as a target_, only that was his decision and his alone, and in some way it’d satisfied his father too. But it’s still his decision.

He shrugs. “I guess not.”

“If it’s what you want.”

“It—” He looks up at his father, because despite everything confidence and decisiveness are still characteristics Thomas Anderson appreciates, only his father’s already turned his back and is leaving the kitchen with only a piece of toast. “—is.”

His mother squeezes his shoulder, a hopeless attempt at washing away his own disappointment.

It’s been such a precarious balancing act, his need to please his parents while desperately trying to be himself; one always seems to make way for the other and he can never hold onto both. Just like now. He doesn’t want to seem selfish, but is he really being selfish when he’s the one being exposed, going out there, _ painting himself as a target_?

No, he decides, there are times in life when he has to make decisions for himself, not someone else. This isn’t for Kurt, or to worry his parents. This is his choice.

He knows it’s the right one the moment he steps out of his car, ready and confident. More than a few kids turn their heads and stare after him, and he thinks maybe it’s the initial shock of seeing the change that keeps them from saying anything. He can live with that.

He makes his way to the gym and marches up to Hannah and some of the other cheerleaders, and all he gets is really appreciative eyebrow-raises and a whistle here or there. He’s almost tempted to bow, but he manages to control himself. They listen attentively to what he has planned and quickly choreograph the number with him, but he’ll be winging most of it. That’s okay, he’s best when he’s loose. 

And then he sets out in search of Kurt. There’s a confidence in his stride he hasn’t felt outside of the stage in years and he never wants to let this feeling go. It’s amazing how much of him his clothes express. He catches sight of Kurt across the hallway, treating his hair to a generous amount of hairspray. 

“Good morning, future Senior Class President,” he sings.

“Hey,” Kurt says, still focused on the contents of his locker, but he can tell when his outfit catches the corner of his eye. Kurt glances at him once, then back again to be sure. 

“You’re wearing a bowtie!” he squeals, jumping back to take everything in. “And flaming red—” 

Kurt finds his eyes. “What brought this on?”

“You did,” he confesses. “I am so proud of you, Kurt. I admire how proud you are of everything you are. It’s time I do the same.”

“I don’t want you to do this for me.” Kurt shakes his head, a cautious concern in his expression. “There’s a time to these things and I know I may have sounded a little pushy but I don’t want to force you to—“

He raises his hands to hush Kurt. “I’m doing this for me. I’ve been hiding long enough. I am out and proud and—I have you in my corner.”

Kurt smiles. “Well, then, we should find a way to show this new you to the rest of the world.”

He claps his hands together in excitement. “I already got that covered.”

#

Sebastian’s not sure what to think when after only a week at McKinley he learns that the same Glee club he’d briefly considered joining is actually the most ridiculous extracurricular of them all. And that’s saying something about a school that has a Superhero Sidekicks Appreciation Club. In his first five days alone he’s witnessed one of the purple pianos quite literally ripped to pieces by the coach of the Cheerios, that Go Go’s display in the cafeteria, and he’s fairly certain that all the kids that got slushied belonged to the New Directions.

He’s not usually someone who goes out of his way to avoid confrontation. In fact he’s more someone to rise to a challenge when it presents itself, a work ethic he undoubtedly got from his mom, but becoming a part of this Glee club could be seriously harmful to his reputation, even more than his mom professing her love for him on the school parking lot.

But then there’s this.

He was hoping that by sitting outside he’d be spared any food fights or impromptu pop performances, and to be fair he had rolled his eyes when the first trumpet sounds wafted his way; he’d looked up at the two guys stopped on top of the courtyard steps, one dressed fashionably flaming, the other wearing bright red jeans, a black t-shirt that looked like it was poured onto him, a lovely bowtie, and yellow shades.

Of course he recognizes them as part of the same Glee club he swore he had no interest in, but he finds his eyes nonetheless drawn to the shorter boy, dancing rhythmically to the sounds of _ It’s Not Unusual _ , his voice adapting to the range of the song easily. Cheerleaders twirl and thrust their hips around him, his hips joining them, the V of his legs where they touch at the knees making certain parts of his anatomy stand out in _ very _ interesting ways.

Most of the students around are watching the performance, and he takes note of how none of them seem unimpressed or perturbed by the teenage dream that’s commanding their attention at the moment—whatever ill feelings there are toward the Glee club, it doesn’t seem to extend to all its members. The cheerleaders and the black girl with the football player boyfriend, too, had seemed fairly safe until the actual food fighting had started.

A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth and he can’t bring himself to look away, mesmerized by the boy’s voice and moves and the stutter of his hips. There’s nothing wrong with looking, after all.

Only he should have known by now that New Directions performances have this way of going awry. The boy manages to finish the number, but before any of the other students can react, the purple piano at the bottom of the courtyard steps catches fire.

Some of the girls scream, most of the other students just stare, and Finn Hudson, quarterback on the football team, is the only one smart enough to get a fire extinguisher.

He takes the opportunity to flee into the school along with some of his fellow students. It’s been irrevocably decided that he won’t be joining the Glee club. Too much trouble with too little to gain.

The hallway doors open and close in front of him, a New Directions trio walking down the hallway toward him: the two gays and a girl with raven hair. They’re talking animatedly amongst themselves, and it’s only then that he realizes this was the same boy who’d been dancing in the cafeteria aisles just a few days before, only he’d worn far more muted colors at the time. What brought on the wardrobe change?

He walks over to the trio, stopping them short in their tracks, silencing them instantly. 

“Hey, killer,” he smiles down at the middle of the three. And because he’s the kind of guy who never fails to leave an impression when the opportunity presents itself, he tugs at the boy’s bowtie. “Nice bowtie.”

The boy’s jaw goes slack, mouth dropping open. “Uh—” he goes, clearly not accustomed to having his private space invaded by complete strangers, and somehow his eyes don’t quite know where to settle.

He doesn’t wait to hear the rest of the boy’s response, he said what he needed to say, let’s a bit of an impression, and he’s not interested in making any small talk with two of his friends around. Maybe later, should he get him alone.

“_What _—?” he hears behind him, the skid of sneakers on the floor, and he knows he’s being watched.

“_Who was that _?” a slightly higher pitched voice chimes in; ladyface gay.

“_The new transfer student_,” the girl answers. “_Sebastian Smythe_,” she says, followed by her dejected, “_What_?” before the bowtie-clad boy says something about ‘Sunshine’ and ‘Corazon’.

#

He watches Sebastian cross the cafeteria without a food tray, only an apple and a bottle of water in one hand, and settle down at the same table he always sits. Ever since their run-in in the hallway a little over a week ago, Blaine had started paying closer attention to the new transfer student. Sebastian hadn’t made contact since, not that he’d had any reason to, but Blaine can’t help but feel his eyes drawn to him every time he notices Sebastian in a room now.

It was strange, to walk into the school with a bowtie, feeling proud and more himself that he had in a very long time, and immediately be validated by a – let’s face it – not too hard on the eyes guy like Sebastian Smythe. But other than his name the only things he’d been able to find out were that Sebastian ran track and took the same AP English and Mathematics class he did. Which had become all the more opportunity for him to stare. Not that he was obvious about it.

He’s only vaguely aware that Kurt settles down across from him at the table, saying something about ‘Britt thinks I’m a unicorn’ and going on to explain that she means he’s someone who knows he’s magical and isn’t afraid to show it, and he really would have the time to comment if he wasn’t so caught up in the bobbing of Sebastian’s Adam’s apple whenever he swallowed, the curve of his hair upwards, the smile that appeared every now and then when someone on the track team said something funny—

“She offered to help me with the campaign,” Kurt says. “Would you mind if I let her—”

“Of course not,” he says, only tuning in for half the conversation, rolling a carrot stick absentmindedly between two fingers. “It’s bound to be a—_ unique _ experience.”

Kurt glances over his shoulder, and when he turns back around his eyes shine with amusement. “You can always go talk to him.”

“Hmm?” His eyebrows draw up as his eyes find Kurt’s again. “No, I’m not—” He shakes his head, looking down at his own neglected food tray. “I’m just looking.”

“Like you used to _ just _ look at Sam?”

He casts down his eyes. Not his proudest moment, he’ll admit. “Don’t—”

But Kurt interrupts before he can say anything: “He runs track, eats lunch with his track buddies, is above average in most of his classes, and his mom drops him off at school every morning.”

“What?” He blinks up. “How would you even know that?”

“_Rachel_.” 

“Should we—say something about that?” His eyes narrow. “I mean, after what she did to Sunshine—”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” Kurt chuckles. “Unless Wonderboy there turns out to be a triple threat I think he’s safe. Honestly, I think she’s just trying to play matchmaker.”

His face falls. “Between me and Sebastian?” 

Last thing he needs is Rachel concerning herself with his love life. A love life that is non-existent, but still, he likes to think he can manage on his own should the opportunity ever present itself. But that opportunity isn’t Sebastian Smythe. “That’s ridiculous. How does she even know he’s gay?”

Kurt’s eyebrows jump sky-high. “Uhm, the same way you and I do?”

“Have you seen him flirt with some of the cheerleaders?”

“I’m saying he’s gay.” Kurt shrugs. “I didn’t say he was out.”

He refuses to believe that just because Sebastian touched his bowtie and complemented him it meant he was gay. His initial reaction was shock, then fear, because it could’ve just as easily have been a threat, even though Sebastian’s smile made that rather hard to believe. But his father had been right; his bowties and more colorful clothing would get him noticed, and he’d do well to be cautious until he knows Sebastian’s true intentions.

“_Wonderboy_?” he questions, though he would never deny its appropriate application to Sebastian’s physique.

Kurt only shrugs in response.

#

“All right, guys, listen up!” Beiste voice booms through the gym. “Smythe here is going to take over half the choreography from Chang. You’re going to listen to him and if I hear so much as one peep out of any of you that’s not cheerful, you answer to me. Do you understand?

A few reluctant ‘yes, coach’s follow. 

He’s about to address all his new students when the three in the front row promptly sit down and don’t move another muscle. “What are you doing?” he asks, staring down at them incredulously. He wasn’t aware he’d already lost all his social credit with these guys.

“I’m not dancing in this musical,” Shane answers. “I love Mike man, and Coach Beiste scares the crap out of me, but _ come on_.” He looks around and gestures at the rest of his teammates. “Us, dancing? We’re football players.”

He wonders why it is that every time he meets a high school football player they always turn out to be such sadsacks. Self-pity is not an attractive quality in anyone. Still, it might be best to keep these guys on his good side, considering they’ll be working together closely for the next few weeks.

“Dancing is going to help your coordination,” he answers. “You might need that to impress the scout.”

Ten pairs of eyes turn to him instantly. “The what?” 

“I overheard Beiste talking to him on the phone,” he says. It was purely coincidental really, he’d never spy on Coach Beiste, but she’d sounded so different talking to this guy on the phone he’d stuck around to listen. “A Cooter Menkins?”

“Cooter Menkins is coming to the game?” Shane asks. 

“No way!” someone in the back exclaims.

He smiles down at Shane. “Plus, what chick doesn’t like a guy who can dance?”

“Dancing’s gotten you laid?” 

He can’t help but think it’s a strange follow-up question. As a teenage boy with urges he can agree that sex preoccupies about 50% of his time, but actively_ getting laid _ only comes to mind when there’s an actual potential partner in the picture. And that’s most definitely not 50% of the time.

“On more than one occasion,” he answers still, smiling wide, because it is the God’s honest truth.

“Well, shit son, why didn’t you just say so?”

Of course, when he talks about girls appreciating a guy who can dance and him getting laid, the two have absolutely no correlation for him. He’d kissed a girl or two in his early teens, quickly making clear that did nothing for him sexually. But none of the football players need to know that. He’s not going to outright tell anyone he’s gay.

But he’s not going to desperately hide it either. He’d already tracked down bars before he and his mom moved here, but it turned out the only one worth his time so far was a tiny laid-back place called Scandals, pretty much housing Lima’s entire gay community. It wasn’t much, but it was_ something _, and with guys like Seth Reardon – tall, tanned and toned – who was he to complain about any establishment? The two of them had only hooked up once so far, but Lima’s limited choice in suitable partners and his pickiness didn’t exclude it happening again. As long as it remained fun and light, he wouldn’t mind it happening a second time.

Practice goes okay, though how some of the football players even manage to coordinate catching a ball while running is beyond him: Shane fares fairly well, but he thinks that has something to do with his girlfriend. A guy like Miles ‘Two Left Feet’ Scott on the other hand took twice as long to learn the routine—the next few weeks were going to be excruciating. At least he’s gathering some allies; he’d never call any of the football players his friends. Except for Mike Chang.

He’s so caught up in his train of thought, walking to his locker and opening it already habitual, that he hardly hears the tentative “Hi” behind him. He turns and stares right into two hazel eyes that he swears change color depending on the lighting. Weren’t they lighter last time?

“Blaine Anderson,” he says, taking note of the distinct lack of a bowtie—now there’s a white sweater over a red-checkered shirt and black pants and a hat covering his black hair. He’d taken care to learn the name after their last blitz encounter, and everything he’s heard up and down these hallways has been nothing but positive. 

“Y-yeah,” Blaine stutters; this seems to be a thing for him. “Sebastian, right?”

He nods. “The one and only.”

“I uh—“ more stuttering, a pull in his lips and restless eyes. It’s adorable, to say the least.“—wanted to give you this.”

Blaine holds out a button: the other gay’s face is pictured in the center.

“Your boyfriend’s running?” 

“He’s not—” a nervous giggle, “—my boyfriend.”

_ Interesting_, he catches himself thinking. There are a lot of things about Blaine Anderson that were interesting right off the bat: his eyes for one, the bowtie, the physique underneath his incredibly deceiving outfits.

“Are you saying that a strapping young gentleman such as yourself is still on the market?”

Blaine smiles, trying desperately to hide it from him as he casts down his eyes.

“Don’t be modest. I don’t know about any of the other Glee members but you definitely stand out.” He smiles. “And this whole bashful schoolboy thing? Super hot.”

Blaine swallows hard, his eyes quickly scanning their immediate surroundings to make sure their interaction isn’t attracting any unwanted attention._ Is this fear? _ he wonders. Maybe he should dial it back.

“So, tell me, Blaine Anderson, why should I vote—” He narrows his eyes on the word at the bottom of the button. “—unicorn?” 

He cringes. Talk about unwanted attention: can this button get any gayer?

“Kurt’s different,” Blaine says. “He can make a real difference at this school.”

“Which I hear doesn’t have the best track record with coming down hard on bullies that attack someone for their sexual orientation.”

Blaine averts his eyes, making him instantly aware he’s touched a sore spot. “Still better than some.”

He wonders exactly how long ago Blaine was the new transfer student. It’s becoming clear that despite Blaine’s display of his individuality only two weeks ago on the courtyard, there’s a lot at this school that makes him think he has to stifle that individuality. And he knows what that feels like. He’s just better at hiding it and making himself not care.

No wonder Blaine and The Unicorn are friends.

“Okay,” he says, “I’ll consider my choices carefully. But between this and dancing in West Side Story this school’s expecting a lot of favors.”

Blaine blinks up at him, his hazel eyes wide in wonder. “You dance?”

He smiles. “Yes, I do.” 

“Well, then the—“ Blaine clears his throat. It’s fascinating how easily Blaine’s body language betrays him. It’s incredibly easy to flirt with this boy. “They’ll be lucky to have you.”

“You’re up for the male lead, I hear.”

Blaine’s eyes narrow on his face, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, the conversation clearly taking on a tone he’s more comfortable with. “You sure hear a lot of things.”

He grins. “I sure do.”

“Thanks for—listening,” Blaine concludes, the first bell announcing classes are starting up again.

“Any time, killer.”

**\- fin -**


End file.
